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I Love Mustard.

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I Love Mustard!

If you have children you will probably relate to this father. As ham sandwiches go, it was perfection: a thick slab of ham on a fresh bun with crisp lettuce and plenty of expensive, light brown, gourmet mustard.

The corners of my jaw aching in anticipation, I carried it to the table in our backyard, picked it up with both hands but was stopped by my wife suddenly at my side.

"Here, hold Johnny (our six-week-old son) while I get my sandwich," she said.

I had him balanced between my left elbow and shoulder

and was reaching again for the ham sandwich when I noticed a streak of mustard on my fingers. I love mustard. I had no napkin.

I licked it off. It was not mustard!! No man ever put a baby down faster. It was the first and only time I have sprinted with my tongue protruding. With a washcloth in each hand, I did the sort of my routine that the shoeshine boys do; only I did it on my tongue.

Later, after she stopped crying from laughing so hard, my wife said: "Now you know why they call that fancy mustard . . "Poupon."

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